


Good Night Moon

by TheOtherMaddHatter



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Also A Shapeshifter, And Some Movies, Angst and Humor, Based on a Tumblr Post, Carlos is Terrified, Cecil Is A Personification Of Night Vale, Cecil is Inhuman, Drabbles, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt feelings, M/M, One Shot, One!Shots, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Some Plot, Supernatural Cecil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherMaddHatter/pseuds/TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things happening, in Night Vale.  Most of them are completely unrelated to one another, while others are happening in parallel-but-really-really-close universes.  Some are happening simultaneously.  Others not at all.  Some events aren't even real.  </p><p>The thing is, no one seems to be able to determine which event falls into what category.  Not even Carlos... and he's a Scientist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is a new drabble, based on multiple headcanons and different ideas or prompts. Enjoy!

_**Study On Night Vale: Carlos The Scientist’s Personal Journal** _

> Hello.  This… This is Carlos, you know, the Scientist.  I’m new in town.  Or, at least, I was.  I think I am.  I’m not sure if I’m still new, or if my new status was revoked upon entry of other “new" visitors to Night Vale.  Visitors like the Time Traveler that no one else can remember, or the traveling man with the deer skin suitcase filled and covered with flies.  No one seems to remember anything around here.  It doesn’t seem to matter to any of the Night Vale residents.  It doesn’t seem to matter to, well, anyone.  Anyone but me.  
> 
> I’ve noticed things.  Terrible, terrible things.  Things like the people, the dog park, the City Council, Rico’s Pizza.  The weather here is different too, and oh god, Time.  Time is so very, very different.  Time here doesn’t seem to follow the rules that Time would normally follow, outside of this desert town.  There are no actual clocks here in Night Vale.  None of them work.  None of them but the one I brought with me when I ended up here.  
> 
> Wherever Night Vale actually is.  I cannot figure out how to leave and return to my home.  Or even go outside of city limits, past Radon Canyon.  I miss my home.  I want to go home.  
> 
> I’m plagued by horrible visions and seemingly unheard noises that no one but me can hear.  Horrible, terrible, shrieking sounds coming from all angles in my apartment and laboratory, or the underlying hum that the entire town seems to be moving through without notice.  I tried to trace it back once.  It originated from the Night Vale Community Broadcast Station where Cecil works.  Inside his sound booth.  Inside Cecil.  
> 
> I don’t think he knows that he’s not really…  _there_.  Not completely.  Oh sure, if you look at him he’s there, as physical as anyone else, but when I turn my head away… He’s not really there.  Not physically.  His body seems to become white and patchy in multiple places, and when I move my head further, he vanishes entirely.  Nothing but his soft, sonorous voice remains, accompanied by the low drone of the constant humming sound.  And the faint and distant screaming.  It’s in these moments that I swear I can see his numerous tattoos shift and move beneath his clothing, and the few eyes that poke over the top of his collar or the bottom of his sleeve blink at me.  Watching my every move.  He never seems to notice, but I do.  
> 
> On the opposite end of that, when I do look right at him, his body doesn’t appear  **right**.  His hair is twisted and curling like horns would be, tangled around itself and moves into his eyebrows almost seamlessly.  And if I could touch it, I’m sure it’d feel just as hard as hoofs or horns.  It looks like hair, but it is not.  I’m not sure Cecil really has hair, of if that’s just what I’m perceiving with my eyes and other senses.  
> 
> Likewise, I’m not sure he really has skin, or even a true working skeleton.  His complexion and tone will change every few days, and cycles through being pale as a well-bleached sheet to being as darkly tanned as the “new and improved" Apache Tracker.  It’s rarely the same two days running.  No one seems to notice, least of all him.  
> 
> He also has a third eye, one that remains tightly close in the center of his forehead.  The puckered skin around it is smooth and thin, small purple veins travel around it’s center.  It looks tired, even though it remains tightly closed.  And I’ve asked.  He doesn’t know it’s there.  He cannot feel it or see its reflection in the bathroom mirror when I’ve prompted him to look.  He cannot open it at will.  
> 
> I don’t want him too.  


	2. We Shouldn't But We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Lascock's Awesome Art, Cecil and Carlos decide to go at it while Cecil's on the air. And Carlos? Well, he's on Cecil. Cecil can't help himself but mentally monologue all that's happening within the studio on the air. 
> 
> Based on this post and Art: http://not-theright-bowie.tumblr.com/post/57025804619/lascocks-daftalchemist-lascocks-yall-gon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based On This Post And Art: 
> 
> http://not-theright-bowie.tumblr.com/post/57025804619/lascocks-daftalchemist-lascocks-yall-gon

_We shouldn’t be doing this_ , I think as I try and read out my news broadcast notes without my voice shaking, shattering apart.  Try being the key word here, listeners.  There was hardly any doing.  Well… besides what dear Carlos is up to.   _We shouldn’t be doing this when Station Management has been so up in arms, lately_.  

It doesn’t seem to stop Carlos or myself from continuing down our dark and lecherous path of public indecency.  Not the thought or the threat of dark horrors of punishment the likes of which mortals can’t even begin to comprehend.  Oh no, dear listeners, it most certainly does not.  It intensifies, makes every touch, every caress, seem to last life times’ longer in this stretch of timeless aching.  

Carlos’s silky, luxurious locks tickle at the underside of my undershirt and along the planes of my belly, brushing at the bottom of the desk where he’s kneeling.  His knees give my feet purchase where they can no longer touch the floor, or the base of my swivel chair.  There’s not much hiding to it, not when my station issued desk is of modern interpretive design.  Not when it curls in and barely supports it’s own table top.  Not when we don’t really care to hide.  The interns can most definitely see into the broadcasting booth should they chose to walk past.  One glance into the long window is all it would take.  It still doesn’t stop us.  It wouldn’t stop us.  

_We shouldn’t be doing this_ , I think again, trying and failing to concentrate.  Carlos’s hands have moved to my hips, where he holds them almost delicately.  His big, strong, indecent hands grasping at my flesh as if it is as sacred as a pure blood stone.   _But please don’t ever stop_ …  

Carlos hums some unknowable song against me.  I can feel the deep vibrations racing up along my skin, thundering through my very core.  Shaking me apart.  Carlos has that dark, deep, power of my own destruction locked away and hidden deep inside him.  Has the ability and the cause to tear me apart from the inside out with nothing more than a few careless sucks at my very flesh.  It only makes it sweeter, pushes both of us to the edge between agony and ecstasy and holds us aloft.  And that, dear listeners, is a pinnacle of pure feeling, ripe with lust and desire and dare I say it?  Happiness.  _Love_.  

And daring, oh so very much daring.  

Don’t ever give that up, fellow Nigh Vale residents.  Because that feeling, that sacred knowledge of Love, is more precious than a thousand grains of sand in the life time of Gods.


	3. Fleeting Feeling Feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos doesn't meant to call Cecil a monster, but, well, it happened. On accident. Carlos wants to stress that part, about it being an accident. Because he doesn't mean it the way Cecil takes it.

"You're not real, Cecil!" Carlos bellows, and Cecil staggers back as much as he can with Carlos's tight grip on his forearm. Despite the rhyme, his words hurt.  Wounds deep. "You're not real unless you have someone looking at you all the time!"

 

Cecil feels like he now has actual wounds creeping across his chest, across his very heart.  Can feel them seeping blood and bleeding through the layers of his dress shirt and suite vest, ruining the fabric every time he so much as flinches.  Can feel them drying, then cracking open again, and then vanishing, just like he is.  Flickering in and out of existence.  The dance of flame blades that comes with realizing your existence is trivial and based on other's perceptions is becoming a strong wave, and it starts with his toes and ends at the very tips of his fingers.  It almost burns.  

 

He can see them flicker in and out of view, and when he finally tears his eyes off the semi-permeable appendages after they’ve reaffirmed their existence at the end of his hands once more, Carlos is starring at him in even more horror.  His pupils are almost tiny pinpoints in the middle of stark white sclera.  Almost no iris shows through his panic.  And that, that terrified loathing deep rooted in horror and mortal fear, is enough to make something inside his chest tear loose and shatter against his glass fragile ribs.  

 

"Cecile..." Carlos begins, and he can't take it, can't take that tone of voice.  Not from Carlos.  Never from Carlos.  "Cecil, wait, I didn't... I didn't..."

 

Cecil tears his arm free and spins neatly on his heels, running for all his worth as fast and as far as he can in the opposite direction.  He cannot bear that tone in Carlos's caramel voice any longer.  It is as painful as eating a spoonful of salt with a ripped-out tongue and sliced, bleeding gums.  Painful and altogether stinging in a violent way.

 

He doesn’t look back.

 

\--

 

Carlos comes looking for him almost immediately, but when Cecil hides and doesn’t want to be found... well, then he’s not going to be found.  A perk of his status, he’d told Carlos once, but Carlos knows it’s because his physical form disappears when no one’s looking.  Cecil didn’t seem to know this until Carlos had brought it up.  He’d always just thought he was really, really good at hide and seek.  It’s sort of breaking Carlos’s heart, especially after what he’d said in the heat of the moment.  

 

He hadn’t meant it, really he hadn’t.  He’d meant it in the horrified scientific discovery sort of way, the way that discovering your semi-best friend slash potential fuck buddy slash romantic interest is a stabilized figment of other people’s imaginations.  Really, really shocking and horrible and even more shocking.  Startling in a bad way.  

 

He hadn’t meant to call Cecil a monster.  

 

“Cecil! Cecil!”  Carlos shouts as loud as he can, hands cupping around his mouth.  Anything to get the radio host’s attention.  “Come back!  I didn’t mean it!  Cecil!”  

 

No one answers, and even though the streets are sort of full of people going to the half-empty farmer’s market, no one even blinks twice at a disheveled scientist shouting regrets into the air.  Because that’s exactly what he’s doing.  And no one seems to care.  

 

“Fuck...”  

 

\--

 

Cecil has been missing for nearly three days, and despite his absence, the radio broadcast still runs.  But instead of Cecil’s dulcet, sonorous tones, there is only an hour of silence broken by the occasional sound of shuffling paper somewhere outside the sound booth.  There is no news, no traffic report, and not even the weather plays.  There is simply no one there, but still the broadcast continues, like it knows automatically that Cecil should be there and just isn’t.  None of the residence of Night Vale seem to notice his absence, as no one says anything about the lack of radio broadcast for those few hours of the day.  It’s like no one knows that Cecil is missing but him.  

 

It’s wearing Carlos down in a way that he’s never felt before.  He hasn’t slept more than four hours total for the past two nights, each time having been awakened by horrible nightmares.  Each one had involved him holding a fast-crumbling Cecil as he crumbled away to nothing in the middle of crowded street of downtown Night Vale.  Each one of the citizens’ empty faces passes them by without so much as a glance down, or even an offer of help.  No one cares that Cecil is... dying.  

 

Oh god, he’s killed Cecil.  Without anyone to believe in him, Cecil won’t be able to hold his form, or any form.  He won’t be able to materialize.  He’ll be trapped in some limbo state without anyone knowing he’s there.  Without anyone to care. 

 

“Cecil!  Cecil, come back!  I’m sorry!”   

 

Oh god... Carlos can’t breathe.  He can’t breathe!

 

“Breathe, Carlos.  Deep breaths.  Come on now, I know you can do it.”  Someone says in Carlos’s ear, a hand on his back working in gentle circles.  Carlos blindly reaches out and grabs at whoever’s arm is there.  His fingers find a shirt sleeve and a forearm, and he latches on.  “That’s it.  Deep breaths.  In and out.  In and out.”  

 

The arms he’s holding onto circle his waist and back, holding his gently but firmly as he struggles to breathe.  He feels like hell, the few days finally catching up with him.  The weight of what he’s done to Cecil with his hurtful words and even more hurtful declarations of science.  And he hadn’t even thought a thing about it when he’d said it.  

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” He can hear himself repeating over and over and over, but it’s like it’s far away.  Coming from down a long tunnel at the end of Raydon Canon.  Distant and fleeting.  “I’m so, so, so sorry.  I have to find Cecil.  I have to apologize.  I have to tell him I know he’s there.  That he’s real.  He won’t exist.  I have to make sure he exists.”  

 

“It’s okay, Carlos.  I know.  I know.” 


	4. Open Wide And Stare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil has a third eye that no one talks about. The thing is, that third eye? It's connected to the entirety of Night Vale. And that's a lot of power. A lot. It's best if that sort of power just... stays sleeping.

The angels were rioting in the middle of town, and the mindless angelic destruction was just that.  Mindless angelic destruction.  Each angel had enough power to rip the town apart on it's own, but when thrown into a tizzy together, each of them powered a separate part of a cell that had the potential to level the entirety of Night Vale.  All the way down to the ground.  As in, completely.  

 

Cecil finds this out when Carlos comes panting into his sound booth, chest heaving, perfect hair disheveled and in disarray.  His eyes are as frantic as his voice while he scrambles to talk, to explain what's happening.  Cecil can feel the perpetual hum that is always in the background of Night Vale increase with each word Carlos says, until it's pressing down onto him as hard as it can.  Cecil feels like he can hardly keep his eyes open.  

 

"C-Cecil?" Carlos stutters after a moment, realizing that he's struggling to even stay upright.  "Cecil, are you alright?  What's wrong?"  

 

Cecil can't even answer, he feels so... tired.  He blinks heavily, eyes moving at a snail's pace.  His eyelids feel like they're being glued together, one eyelash at a time.  His pupils flicker back and forth beneath his lids.  Like he can see through them, like a ghostly veil.  

 

The humming has turned into a near siren's wail.  It's just so loud, no longer in the background noise as it should be.  Ringing in his ears.  Now it's all Cecil can hear, drowning out everything, including Carlos.  

 

Cecil shuts his eyes.  

 

Everything fades away.  

 

Cecil opens his eye.  

 

And the world implodes.


	5. Spinning Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil feels the pull. Carlos sees the results. And those stones just continue to stare and stare and stare at both of them. 
> 
> (Semi-based on those stones from the movie Atlantis. Because they're awesome, and I can see Cecil having something like that.)

"I think... that's me."  Cecil says as softly as snow falling against a fleece blanket, barely a whisper of sound.  "That's me."  

 

Carlos looks up at the massive floating stones that are circling something that looks like a ball of light, or maybe an eye.  It's hard to tell with all the glowing purple and the ancient designs carved into the stones and the ground around them.  It's hard to tell what they even are.  And if this is Cecil, the real Cecil and not just a projection, then it's even more confusing, just on principle.  

 

They're deep bellow the radio broadcasting station, having followed a mysterious staircase deep, deep down underground.  There'd been a change in frequency in the humming that morning, something in Cecil had felt it shift, and sought out the staircase.  He'd never seen it before.  He hadn't even known it was there.  But he knew, just knew, that he needed to go down there.  That it was imperative.  

 

Carlos hadn't let him go alone.  

 

The stones were circling the lighted eye carefully, mystically, moving in a distinct but unrecognizable pattern. It would shift every few minutes at will, never keeping still.  Not until Cecil -Cecil's mental projection- stepped within their circle's reach.  It was then that they froze and all panned out, facing down towards him, glowing a deep and vibrant purple.  

 

The humming gained pitch and volume, until it was nearly deafening Carlos, who'd been forced to cover his ears as tightly as he could less he blow out his ear drums.  But Cecil didn't seem bothered.  Not at all.  Instead, he was standing there looking up, nodding slightly and listening to something only he could hear before the stones shifted back up in their original position and started to ascend down.  Cecil let his head fall back and was engulfed in the light, the stones circling around him.  The humming increased.  

 

And then stopped, but only for a minute.  

 

But in that stillness, Carlos could swear that the humming sounded exactly like Cecil's sonorous, soothing voice.  Telling him it would be all right.


	6. Right On Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short ficlet where Cecil is just randomly cumming his brains out at strange intervals, and Carlos -the perfect scientist that he is- can't seem to figure out why or what's causing it. But instead of it being super serious or scary, it turns out that Cecil can make himself orgasm on command and is doing it just to spend time with Carlos. Meanwhile, the whole thing is turning Carlos on so much that he's having trouble hiding it. He's decided to set up an RV Camper just to get some of the attention off the camp ground he's popping in the front of his pants.

Carlos can’t figure out what’s happening to Cecil.  He can’t, he just can’t.  

 

And it’s not because of what’s... _happening_ to Cecil.  No, there’s jut not a good explanation for what’s occurring. Really, there’s not.  Not at all. Or not one that Carlos can find, at least.  Because Cecil is... Well, Cecil is just spontaneously... He’s just...

 

How should he put this?

  
_Cumming_.  **Repeatedly**.  **_One right after another_**.    

 

Carlos is a scientist, for god’s sake, but can’t come up with a more scientific way of saying that Cecil is cumming at random intervals, unprovoked and without aid, and can’t seem to stop, despite how much he’s tried.  They’ve both tried.  _Spontaneous Unexplained Orgasm_.  There, he’s done it.  He’s figured out how to label the damn things.  And Carlos cannot figure out why Cecil keeps having these SUO’s.  No one is touching Cecil, there’s nothing in his blood work that’s not there normally, and there’s not any external stimulation from Cecil’s clothing.  Nothing.  Cecil is just randomly having unprovoked orgasms out in broad day light.  SUO’s that Carlos can’t explain.  

 

Cecil first contacted Carlos by phone, sometime late in the day, during the weather segment of his show.  He’d sounded funny all evening, actually, now that Carlos is thinking back on it, but it hadn’t been worrisome.  His voice had kept hitching and breaking on certain words, wavering and becoming breathy on others, like he’d faint if he just couldn’t take a deep gulp of air right that very minute.  He’d just sounded sick, at first.  But now, Carlos knows exactly why Cecil sounded just so out of breath while on his show.  SUO’s.  

 

And the thought of Cecil orgasming on the live radio broadcasting feed is more than enough to make Carlos’s own pants feel ridiculously tight.  Like, extremely so.  Full on camp ground going, and Carlos can’t get himself under control either.  Luckily, or unluckily, Cecil hasn’t noticed the tent he’s pitching in his own front yard.  He’s too busy with his own problems, and the lab coat hides a majority of the problem from sight if he stands still long enough.  Still enough.  No, Cecil hasn’t noticed the other problem in the room because of his own, and Carlos wouldn’t have it any other way.  

 

He literally couldn’t bear the thought of Cecil knowing that he was stupidly turned on and hot under the collar from watching Cecil being forced to cum so many times.  Because he really likes Cecil, and that would just... It would just ruin things, plain and simple.  He’d work up to telling Cecil about his feelings in his own time.  In the meantime, he was shit out of luck.  So much so that he had a hard time - _hah, hard time_ \- thinking up the word ‘orgasm’ to replace ‘cum’ inside his own head, due to diverted blood flow.  Unacceptable.  Cecil can never know. Not ever.   

 

But oh, as Cecil starts to get all hitched up and breathy and red across the face and down his neck again... 

 

_There!  There it is!_    

 

Cecil tries to stifle his cries by biting his own fist, tugging his shirt this way and that in a refusal to touch his pants and the problem nestled inside of them, his lap remaining covered by one of Carlos’s spare lab coats, but even Carlos can see he’s fighting a loosing battle now.  Cecil can’t seem to make whatever it is stop, and when it gets to be too much, well Cecil seems to just stop fighting.  He’s dry orgasming at this point, too many cycles in too short of time.  Despite his now almost-instantaneous refractory period, he’s long since stopped having anything to give up during his peaks.  His body has given all it had hours ago.  There is no more.   Nothing to be had but the pleasure Cecil is clearly feeling.  It doesn’t seem to stop whatever is doing this to him.  

 

Who can, by the way, see Carlos’s perfect body betraying him every time he twitches this way or moves that way.  The lab coat hides nothing, really.    

 

**He likes it**.

 

And if his perfect and most favored scientist never figures out that Cecil can orgasm at will and is not being plagued by something horrible and non-consensual?  Well, that wouldn’t be too bad of a situation.  After all, Cecil loves to watch perfect Carlos, no matter the case.  


End file.
